


Ex Mortē

by vfrankenstein



Category: The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
Genre: Faulknerian Writing Style, Gratuitous Fix-It Fic, M/M, Mentions of Incest Kinda Sorta in the Past, Quentin is in Hysterics, Stream of Consciousness, The Compsons are a Mess, Thwarted Suicide Attempt, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vfrankenstein/pseuds/vfrankenstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of Quentin's section written in his style, in which Shreve gets home just in the nick of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ex Mortē

            I got my hat and I brushed my hair and I thought since I was putting in the effort I might as well polish my shoes so I took them off to polish them and I had one finished and was in the midst of polishing the other when Shreve walked in, all rosy with wine and his natural colour and he saw the letter on the table and the books all piled up and he went to the table and opened the letter and I stood up and he was reading and I stood up and he looked at me and he said “What's this, Quentin?” and I stood up and then he had me by the arms and I was crying one shoe on and one shoe off and the letter was on the floor. I said I'm going to the river Shreve I said I'm going to drown myself. And he Quentin Quentin what's all this Quentin shaking me and I did you ever have a sister? And then he kissed me.

            I did not break away and I should have but I did not his lips he was warm and not like Natalie and not like her nothing like her there in the moonlight by the branch he was Shreve with his rosy spectacles pressed against my face kissing me kissing me one shoe on and one shoe off and crying still crying tears onto both our cheeks his tears or mine? He was Shreve and he was a freshman and he had never had a sister he had never so he couldn't and he was from the North _a Harvard boy Harvard Harvard_ and he was kissing me and _is this a dagger I see before me the handle toward my hand_ and “Quentin,” he said, “Quentin. Quentin. You mustn't.” breathing hard and his grey eyes through the red pink glass and his red pink lips and his hot cheeks and his small moustache and I wept for him and sagged against his shoulder and he “Let's get you to bed, Quentin, come now.”

            We staggered through the door not to my room not to my room I said and he said Alright so to his and he sat me on the bed still crying and he taking off my jacket and tie and bending down to take off the one shoe and “If I hadn't come home, by God...” and “Look at you, all dressed to the nines.” and a choking noise that might have been from me or perhaps from him and next were my socks and he kissed my feet so soon to have been weighted with flatirons and he came up to unbutton my vest and then the shirt but he forgot the cuffs so he had to redo them and his fingers were shaking so badly and he was cursing because he'd forgotten to do the cuffs, and at last I was there in my undershirt and my trousers and Shreve tucked me in and pulled a chair up to the bed and neither of us spoke for a very long time, and I could hear the watch ticking even in the drawer where I had set it.

            “You must never do that again, Quentin, do you understand?” Shreve said at last, silhouetted in the light from the parlour.

            “You kissed me,” I said, and I wasn't even aware that I was shaking until that moment, and the tears were still running down my face, but quiet now. He looked away, anywhere but me, and I let out a sob and he said “Yes” and I was crying in earnest now, because he had kissed me and now he wouldn't look and he had kissed me and had kept me from doing it and now I was here shaking uncontrollably in another man's bed but it wasn't another man it was Shreve. Shreve. Shreve.

            I reached out a hand and he looked back at me and he leaned forward to take it. His grip was firm and his hand was soft and I'm sure mine was as cold and as damp and as limp as a drowned man's but he held it and I was still crying and I pulled his hand closer tugging him tugging him out of his chair until at last he got in the bed and lay down beside me on top of the covers.

            “You kissed me,” I whispered, my voice muffled by the tears and the silence and the dark and he said “I was afraid, Quentin,” and his eyes shone in the dark.

            I didn't say anything for a long time after that and I could still hear the watch and the trembling did not stop but the tears quieted again and at last I leaned forward and Shreve closed his eyes and whispered “Quentin” and I closed my eyes and then I kissed him.

            His lips were warm and soft and gentle not hard and urgent like before and I was kissing him this time not the other way around. I was kissing him and he should have pulled away but he didn't, instead his hand came up to tangle in my hair and the trembling got worse and his glasses were pressed against my face and I could feel the velvet of his small moustache and it was all too much, all too much and I was drowning after all but I didn't want to now, not now with his hand in my hair and my lips pressed to his so I came up for air, backing away only slightly, our foreheads pressed together and now he was crying too, and both of us gasping for breath. One of Shreve's hands was still holding mine, the other was stroking the back of my head and I moved down and forward and nuzzled into the hollow of his shoulder, smiling through my tears against the crook of his neck and his hand came down and his arm wrapped around me pulling us closer and at last the trembling had ceased, and I could hear no longer the cursed ticking of the watch. 


End file.
